Days Like This/Behind The Crimson Door

desperation breeds invention,

creativity the key to survival,

it’s hard to give,

when there’s nothing left to offer,

even harder to take,

when you've taken all there is to take;

we’re all just holding on;

today was a picture perfect day,

not a cloud in the sky,

not too hot,

not too cold,

cool gentle breeze blowing,

sweet and pure;

days like this are the worse;

the sadness comes seeping to the surface,

the yearning for escape softly whispers,

the need to anesthetize cries out;

days like this,

always make me want to get buzzed,

days like this,

always make me want to forget;

so many traps,

so many snares,

so many one-way roads,

with destinations leading nowhere;

never going down that path no more;

darkness lives,

just outside this crimson door,

waiting like a stranger in the shadows,

slithering as a snake,

back into its hidden hole,

purpose has no meaning here,

clarity just a slip of the tongue,

silence fills the endless void,

words die like falling leaves on a tree;

days like this

never end;

the obsession grows,

steady and slow,

without beginning or end,

distant clouds on the horizon,

wandering in this wilderness,

the enemy waits for the moment;

the storm is never far away;

outside,

there is talk of change,

as some hold on to the hope,

still others grow cold,

either way the sun rises and sets,

with or without our consent;

when the Son of Man returns

will there be any faith

to find?

this moment no longer moves,

out here,

among the frozen wasteland,

dark and endless,

forgotten and alone,

cold to the bitter bone,

old voices fill the air,

cries of the raging beast,

secret sanctuaries,

hiding within the chaos,

butterflies flowing on the wind,

lost somewhere within nighttime shadows,

waiting for something more,

madness my old friend,

I can no longer deny your sweet touch;

it always begins like this,

it always ends as something else;

like the lead character

in a Fellini film,

wandering through fields

of golden nonsense,

swept away by the growing hush,

traveling a hundred miles

to move an inch;

the crimson door

knows no pity.

.

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